Four Birthdays
by Maelstrom Sparrow
Summary: For Canada Day - four little stories about Canada's closest allies and his birthdays spent in their company. Just for fun, slight England/Canada. Happy Birthday to my country! T for foul language...in French.


_Four important times someone remembered Matthew Williams' Birthday~For Canada Day, even though it's nearly over for most of the country~Warning for some very slight and brief Canada/England.  
_

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**July 1st, 1916**

France hit the ground with a thud and a hiss of hot breath between his teeth. Muddy fingers clutched at his arm where the bullet had grazed him, as he fought to catch air. Someone had tackled him away just in time – he'd narrowly avoided a shot to the heart. The weight on his chest was not stone or earth, but human, and it was thankfully lifted, alive. His saviour grabbed onto his shoulders.

"France! France, are you alright?"

Could it have been England? He tried to wrench his eyes open, move his shoulders somehow, but the hands pinning him down were frightfully strong and his head was pounding with the sound of gunfire.

"_Repondez, bête homme!"_

His own language – the dizziness in his head cleared, and he looked up into eyes not green like British moors but blue, like Arctic sea.

"_Mathieu_?" he managed incredulously.

The hands on his shoulders dropped and he heard the dominion let out a sigh. France pulled himself up to sitting and sunk his back against the muddy walls of the trench. In an instant, the hands of his former colony were at his arm, prying his fingers away.

"I didn't expect to find you here- _et- tch- merde, qu'est-ce que tu fais?_" he cried incredulously, as pain shot up through his arm.

"Don't touch it," the other nation said soothingly, and then, after a pause, "why not? I'm a dominion. I'm here with England."

France was silent at this – it was always painful to be reminded of that. Canada had been quite the colony to lose. Evidently, with the speed he'd just shown shoving France out of the bullet's path. How fast had he been _moving?_ And not just fast, either, because the hands holding him down were so strong and yet so precise and delicate as they examined the bullet wound. His glasses were missing until France noticed the battered frames tucked into his left pocket, and his face was swept with mud, but his eyes sparked intelligently and bright on the gray battlefield.

"You may have saved my life, _cher Canada,_" he said honestly, even sounding a little surprised.

"Haven't done that yet," the other nation said gruffly. "_Zut, _I don't have any bandages…"

"_Laisse-le pour le moment," _France said with a dismissive wave of his other hand. "I cannot pretend I am not grateful, but how could England force you into such a-"

"I would have come anyways," Canada snapped, smacking the fluttering hand away. A red flush started to crawl onto his cheeks and France smiled through the stinging pain in his arm. Exerted, or embarrassed?

"_Pour moi, Mathieu?"_

The hands froze in their ministrations, came away crimson with France's blood. "_N-non, ce n'est…_you're…incompetent, that's all, you can't take care of yourself._"_

France pretended to pout, and propped his rifle against the trench wall. The shots overhead seemed to quiet, at least briefly, and the battlefield became painfully tense and silent. "And you're going to do that? A little British _dominion_ like yourself, you'll take care of _me?_ Shouldn't you be guarding your Empire?"

The Canada he knew would have instantly dissolved into shy muttering. Instead, the country replied calmly. "You forget," he said, "_je suis un pays francais aussi. _I'll take care of England _and_ I'll take care of you_._"

France's head fell back into the muddy trench wall, and he laughed. Loosely, the hand on his injured arm wormed over towards Canada's, found it and squeezed. The country didn't react at first, but then tentatively, shyly, squeezed it back.

"That you would devote yourself so fully, and on such an important day!" he said kindly. "I have absolute faith in you, _Mathieu_."

**July 1st, 1945**

Canada finally worked up the courage to cross the room. He put one trembling hand to the drapes, took in a deep breath, convinced himself that bears didn't knock on windows and wrenched the curtain back, leaping out of the way in case someone decided to attack him.

On the other side of the window, a slightly confused looking nation knocked lightly on glass for the eighth time that evening.

Feeling his blush instantly flare up, Canada scurried forwards and unlatched the window, throwing it wide. The guest ducked just in time, the bottom of the window brushing through his spiked hair, and Canada let out an apologetic squeak.

"Sorry!" he gasped, as the other country rose slowly to his full, impressive height, like he expected something else to come flying his way. "Um…why are you outside my window?"

Netherlands looked up at him and cocked his head to the side like the answer was obvious. "It's your birthday."

Canada didn't know whether to yell or hug him. He settled for a hesitant "um…yes." _Is it tradition in Holland to stare through someone's bedroom window on their birthday?_

"I came to bring the rest of your present." He continued matter-of-factly. The nation lifted his other hand and Canada blinked. In the black-gloved grip was a dozen red tulips, vibrant even in the nighttime, crisp and fresh-cut.

"Those?" Canada asked breathlessly, and leaned nearly halfway out the window to reach them. He touched a stem reverently with his finger. "They're beautiful!"

Netherlands' eyes flashed, although his face remained stoic and still. "I have currently ninety-eight thousand eight hundred and…" he paused, counted off the stems in his hand, "…sixty-two of them. The other thousand-hundred thirty-eight should be here on Wednesday."

The other country felt his jaw drop nearly to the ground. "A- a hundred- a hundred…_what?_"

Handing him the flowers and digging in his pocket with the other hand, Netherlands seemed to be grinning. Canada gripped the tulips shakily, wide-eyed, and watched as the country lit his hand-carved pipe and took a long draw.

"A gift from the Royal Family of the Netherlands," he pronounced with all the sincerity of a treaty, "to the Government and People of Canada – one hundred thousand tulips."

He paused. "I hope you like red."

The blush on his cheeks was uncontrollable now, and Canada stuttered out the half-formed beginnings of elaborate thanks. Netherlands held up a calming hand. "Don't fret. We have a lot of tulips left over."

He was _definitely_ smiling now, shallow and slight, but there. "It is a small gesture, the likes of which could never hope to reach what you have done for us."

The country in the window was silent, clutching his dozen red tulips to his chest. As he watched, the visitor swept into a low, reverent bow, the tails of his long scarf brushing to the ground. He arose smoothly and spun his pipe habitually in his fingers. There seemed to be more to say, but Canada was overwhelmed. Netherlands only nodded and said with odd formality, "_Fijne Verjaardag_," and walked away.

**July 1st, 1959**

High over the quiet blue seaway, fireworks shattered the sky in red and white. The canal was still, and mirrored the lights of stars and flares above them as the sparks came pouring down into the water. There were no boats to shift the waves and no fish to stir the current – in fact, the only two living things on the seaway were two brothers, floating on their backs on a homemade raft.

"I have a feeling this thing is going to make us rich," the older one said with a smile. He popped one of the bottles open with a crisp fizzing noise and took an experimental taste. "_Millionaires,_ bro, I'm telling you."

"Hm…" the other one said, leaning back to enjoy the gentle waft of their raft. He'd bunched a jacket under his head for a makeshift pillow, as July was hot even in his country. "What would you do with a million dollars, Al?"

The American pressed himself up on his elbows and swung his pop bottle widely, letting a few fizzy drops sprinkle into the calm water. "I know exactly what I'd do. I would build a really, _really _awesome tree fort."

His brother blinked. "What?"

"Yeah, a tree fort!" America said, leaning over with a bright smile, glittering in the fireworks. "Like when we were kids, you know. And you could help me, it wouldn't be that hard."

Canada dissolved into little chuckles. "You're not very practical, Al."

"And you're boring," was the swift but affectionate response. His brother shoved him nearly off the raft, and he had to grip the edge to stop himself from taking a dive in the St. Lawrence. _Their_ St. Lawrence. "What would you buy, then?"

"What a normal person would do. I'd buy a house," Canada said, restraining his laughter. "And new furniture. Maybe a nice chesterfield."

"I hate you and your stupid British English," was the suddenly scathing reply.

"It's _Canadian_ English."

There was a pause. Another firework cracked overhead, and the sky burst red. "I'll drink to that," America said, and toasted the sky. There was a thoughtful pause as they both did, and then the older brother lay back on their raft. "You know," he said a little more pensively, "this is going to sound weird because you're my brother, but I'm proud of you."

Canada felt his heart jump just a little. "Really?"

"Yeah," America said like it was no big deal. "You're totally self-sufficient now. And…it's neat that we can do stuff like this together. Build things. This canal is _ours,_ Mattie – not the Empire's – we built it ourselves. Doesn't it feel great?"

Happily, the Canadian snuggled up to his brother and rested his cheek on his shoulder. "Yeah," he said drearily.

"So…yeah," America said, kind of strained. "Erm…Happy Birthday, I got you a St. Lawrence Seaway."

Canada hugged him around the middle, and after recovering from the initial shock, America coughed and tossed his bottle cap over his shoulder. "Yeah, don't get all touchy-feely on me, okay?"

Canada sat up instantly, blushing. The light from the next firework caught something shiny and metallic, floating in the water, and he turned and smacked his brother hard on the thigh. "Don't go throwing litter in our channel when we _just built it._"

"Consider it inaugural litter," he replied smoothly. Canada watched the little silver cap trail smooth patterns through the gentle water, hit from all angles by the sparking fireworks.

"Alright," he said, and flopped back down on their homemade raft. There was a peaceful, proud pause.

"I'd totally put a fridge in my tree fort. All the pre-wrapped sausages you could ever eat."

"Why don't they pre-wrap _bacon?_ Someone should really pre-wrap bacon."

"What, like _real_ bacon or weird _Canadian_ bacon?"

There was a cry followed by a loud splash, and the St. Lawrence Seaway was greeted with its inaugural American. Canada's laughter was lost to the sound of booming fireworks, before a hand shot out from the depths and pulled him gleefully into the water.

**March 29th, 1982**

It was no hardship to have to spend this summer in England. His Empire's garden was lush and live with green, and where they sat in the sun to take tea, he'd planted red rose bushes. The colour was an old preference for them both, and even though it was his birthday, he still felt patriotic celebrating it here.

The little glass table between them was piled high with used teacups and papers and pens. Canada spun one of them across the table as England re-read his letter. "Your Prime Minister is a phenomenon," he said, raising his eyebrows. "This is very elegant, Canada, elegant indeed."

The other country blushed a little, but said nothing. His fingers curled under the sides of his chair in anticipation.

England let out a sigh and crossed his legs. "Well, I suppose they've really done all the work for me, haven't they? I'll sign."

The statement seemed to be one meant to convince them both, because England didn't sign. He twirled the pen back and forth in his fingers a few times, laid the letter down on the table and then picked it up and re-read it again. Something held him back.

"England?" Canada said cautiously. "You know this is kind of a formality, right?"

"Yes, yes," he said irritably. He put down one pen and picked up another. "I just…"

The words died in his throat as Canada slid his hand cautiously across the table to brush England's. Sighing but otherwise unmoving, the older country seemed to lose a bit of his nervousness. "It's alright," the younger nation said in the cheeriest way he could muster. "It's not like this is going to change anything, in your case."

He smiled weakly at that. "No," he corrected, "this is very important for both of us. The minute my pen touches this paper, I have lost all control over you. Or, perhaps more truthfully, you have gained control of yourself."

Canada stared awkwardly out to the garden, and retracted his hand from England's to the teacup on the table. He thought about taking a drink before remembering he'd already finished it.

"And yet this is the way such things should be done. As the nation who raised you I should be proud to see us parting ways in such a civil, diplomatic manner."

More quietly, he continued. "I am proud. I'm _very_ proud."

There was a rapid scratching sound – and a piece of parchment landed on the table, with _Arthur Kirkland_ scrawled in rounded calligraphy at the bottom. Canada ran his hands over it in disbelief.

"This the way such partings should happen."

"It's not a parting," Canada said quietly, his eyes fixed on the stark signature. As he traced it slowly with one hand, the other found its way back across the table to England's, absentmindedly ran his knuckles along it.

"F-forgive me," England stammered. "I've been rambling. Uh," he swallowed, and stood abruptly from his chair, fiddling with the pen again. Attached loosely to his other hand, Canada rose with him, still clutching the paper. "W-we should mail that, or something. Or are you – well, that wouldn't be safe, so you should probably take that back with you, I suppose, and-"

"Do you want me to leave already?" Canada asked, concerned.

"N-no!" England squeaked. "You're free to if you want, evidently, b-but you could always…stay."

The word _free_ seemed to hit especially hard. The moment England said it a wide smile started to spread across the country's face, and as soon as he stopped for breath, Canada grasped England's jaw in both hands and kissed him once on each cheek. The country squirmed and cried out a little indignantly at that, and so when Canada withdrew he promptly apologized.

"Sorry," he said, "I think that's the French in me."

England scoffed, crossing his arms. "The French don't usually want to kiss the English," he joked.

A coy grin snuck onto Canada's features, an obvious hand-me-down from Francis. "Well, this one does."

There was a moment before the new nation realized what he had said. He clapped his hands to his mouth as if he was trying to wipe the smirk away. England laughed and relieved him of the document, placing it delicately on the garden table. "Luckily, I much prefer your French to any other kind."

His English education did not allow him to ignore the double entendre. And neither did his English companion, who looped his arms around his neck and pulled him down and close for a quick, gentle kiss. It was barely more than a sweet brush, a fleeting taste, but Canada felt his heart jump and his face spring into a grin. Muttering through his smile, he said, "thanks for the constitution, tyrant."

"Oh, you're welcome, half-breed," England shot back happily. And then, with a hopeful crooked smile he continued, "Congratulations."

XxXxX

NOTES:

Hate my ending, hate the fact that Canada is taller than England, hate my failures at French, hate the fact that I forgot it was Canada Day today and so I couldn't write something as good as I wanted. Love the tulips, though.

Part A – Battle of the Somme. This part of the story is completely inaccurate. The first battle Canada had in France came almost a _year_ before this. French-Canadians for the most part actually didn't want to be involved in such a European war. The only reason why I picked it is because the battle actually did start July 1st. In my headcannon, Newfoundland = Canada's glasses, so since the Newfoundland Regiment was nearly wiped out at the Somme, I broke his glasses so _something_ would be accurate. In the end, Canada did help out lots - probably mostly in the air, as we had a couple of really kickass flying aces, but we also took back some important French territory, most pointedly Vimy Ridge.

Part B – Liberation of the Netherlands. Not only did Canada (with some help) liberate the country from occupation, they also gave safe haven to their Royal Family, including a pregnant Queen, and briefly made a part of Canada international territory so her baby could be born on "Dutch" soil. As a thank-you, the Netherlands gave Canada 100,000 tulip bulbs, and continues to give them thousands every year. I wasn't sure whether to call him "Netherlands" or "The Netherlands" but the first one sounded more flowy.

Part C – The St. Lawrence Seaway. A joint project by a Canadian and American company. The logo inspired me to put this in, because it's half a maple leaf and half a star. It made me think brotherly love right away. Also, the canal was filled for the first time on Canada Day. If you get what song they're referencing here, you win the internet.

Part D – Canada calls its birthday July 1st 1867, but this is arguably another birthday, and Canada's last step to independence. This was the date when Royal Assent was given on the Canada Act, which allowed the constitution to be edited by Canadian Parliament. Up until then, only the British Parliament could edit it. In 1982 it was brought home, and edited by Pierre Trudeau's government into its modern form.

ENGLAND. That was mean. I love the most wonderful Canadian Franglais heritage.

ALSO THE FRENCH:

_Repondez, bête homme – Answer, stupid man_

_et- tch- merde, qu'est-ce que tu fais – And – shit, what are you doing_

_Cher Canada – Dear Canada_

_Zut – Damnit_

_Laisse-le pour le moment – Leave it for a moment_

_Pour moi, Mathieu – for me, Matthew_

_J__e suis un pays francais aussi – I'm also a French Country_

_Fijne Verjaardag – _hopefully Happy Birthday, I'm using Google!Dutch

HAPPY BLEEPING BIRTHDAY, CANADA~~~~! GOING TO GET A HAND MASSAGE NOW. Take a cookie, leave a review :)


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